


Minor Love

by pipistrelle



Series: the wonder that's keeping the stars apart [5]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Aromantic Scully, Asexual Mulder, Autopsies, Bisexual Character, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Multi, OT3, Post-Series, Queerplatonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2785319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipistrelle/pseuds/pipistrelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Conspiracies may rise and fall, shadow governments may burn cities and betray nations, but sometimes it's the little things that last. Here are some of Mulder and Scully's.</p><p>Chapter 1: Death and sleep in Texas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Drama of each season  
> Plots doom from above,  
> yet all angelic reason  
> moves to our minor love." 
> 
> \-- Trio of Love Songs, Sylvia Plath

After six years, Scully's started to hate Texas. It seems like no case that takes them there ever goes smoothly, and this one is no exception; chasing reports of a strange glowing creature had turned into slogging through freezing January cloudbursts for days on end, arguing with territorial local detectives, and staying up all night sorting through photos of recent animal-inflicted wounds across three counties. On the fourth day, Mulder wakes her up at two in the morning to autopsy a coyote attack victim. The only reason she doesn't kill him is that he looks even more tired than she is.

He must have crawled under the covers the second she left, because she by the time she gets back, bleary-eyed and just about ready to start clawing hitchhikers to death herself, he's blissfully asleep in her bed. She stands staring at him for a moment, too exhausted to move, then tugs off her shoes and jacket and climbs under the covers next to him, shoving him over to make room.

"Scully," he mumbles, and reaches for her without opening his eyes, hooking one arm around her waist and pulling her close so his chest is pressed against her back and her head is tucked under his chin. He buries his nose in her hair and inhales deeply, then makes a soft little contented sound like a cat curling up in a sunbeam. "You smell like dead people."

"Yeah, well, whose fault is that?" she snaps. Her head is pounding, her eyes feel gritty and glued-together, and if he thinks he can waltz in here and take _her bed_ , then complain about her _smell_ \--

"No, 's nice," he says decisively. "Very… Scully."

"God, Mulder," she groans, and wants to say _you're so weird_ , but she's pretty sure he's asleep again. His breath is tickling the back of her neck, and she can feel the wiry hair on his bare legs scratching her ankles. Any minute now, she knows, he's going to start snoring, that nasal honking snore that's always just loud enough to keep her from falling asleep but never quite gets loud enough to be worth waking him up. She would think about going into his room and taking his bed, but he's clinging to her like a burr and the thought of going out into the rain again, even if it's just to the next motel room over, makes her want to cry.

At least Mulder is warm. She sighs and pulls his arm a little higher over her waist, letting his body heat chase the chill from her bones. "If you snore, I'll shoot you," she warns him.

"Sure, Scully," he says without waking up.

His hand is resting on the pillow by her head. As she lays hers next to it, she notices a rusty brown smudge on the underside of her wrist, courtesy of the late Mr. Thomas Fellwether. (1978-1998, _much beloved of coyotes_ , says a dry voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Mulder.)

(A strange epitaph for a strange resting place. Mr. Fellwether's mortal remains are splattered along the shoulder of State Highway 71, pooling in a shallow basin in the care of the Travis County morgue, and now blotting off onto the pillow of a man who likes the smells of decay and disinfectant because they remind him of her.)

She carefully wipes the last traces of death off her skin with the edge of the pillowcase and settles back into the soft, solid, familiar planes of Mulder's body. He isn't snoring yet. If she turned her head, she could press her ear to his chest and hear his heart, profound and dependable at seventy beats a minute, signifying life. The only other sound is the measured rise and fall of his breathing and the persistent rattle of the rain on the roof. She listens, but she can't even hear any vicious unearthly creatures howling out in the dismal night.

Without thinking -- she's too tired to think -- she brings Mulder's hand to her lips, softly kissing the backs of his fingers. He nuzzles further against her neck, and she drifts off pretty sure that, as weird as it is, this is the happiest she's been in Texas.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-series, pre-IWTB. Mulder has some issues to work through but, thankfully, he has plenty of help.

"Tell me about your pain, _mi amor_ ," Monica says earnestly.

Mulder sets the last dish in the drying rack and turns to look at her. "For the last time, I don't have any pain."  
  
"You do, I know you do. I can see it. It almost blinded me when I walked in."  
  
"Okay. One," Mulder holds up a finger, "you can't see auras. Two, all credible clairvoyants describe pain as corresponding to a dark spectrum of colors, not a bright one. So even if you could see my aura --"  
  
"She doesn't need to see your aura, she can see your face," Scully calls. She's curled up on the couch with the newest American Journal of Medicine, having traded in her scrubs for sweatpants and one of Mulder's old Oxford t-shirts, and she's pulled her hair back into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. It's the most relaxed Mulder's seen her in weeks, probably thanks to the remains of the excellent home-cooked Mexican dinner on the kitchen table. And the woman who had made it, of course.

Mulder makes a show of cupping a hand protectively over his chin, cradling the fledgling beard that has so far brought him nothing but persecution in his own house. "I don't have to stand for this," he announces to the world at large, but the truth is that if it brings that teasing smile to Scully's face then Monica can come over and make fun of his facial hair as much as she wants.

Which is good, since she never seems to get tired of it. "I just don't understand," she says calmly, trying to reason with him. "This must be a deep-seated desire to hide your face, some kind of flight response to some pain or sadness you're experiencing. It must mean something vital to you, or you wouldn't keep it when you've got the most beautiful woman in the world telling you to shave it off. It just doesn't make any sense."

Mulder raises an eyebrow. "No offense, Monica, but I don't think you're quite the most--"

"She means me," Scully drawls, setting her journal down and leaning on the back of the couch with her chin in one hand, watching the bickering in her kitchen with a faint smile. "As much as I hate to interrupt, could one of you bring the most beautiful woman in the world a beer?"

Monica pulls two beers out of the fridge and hands one over the back of the couch, then grins as Scully cups one hand around the back of her neck and pulls her down into a brief kiss.

"See, this isn't fair," Mulder protests. "She'd say anything you wanted her to, Scully, she's completely in thrall to your wiles."

Monica grins and perches on the arm of the couch. Scully takes a sip of her beer. "Don't knock it, Mulder. The way I see it, if you'd been a little more in thrall to my wiles, we wouldn't have had this problem in the first place."

"So you called in reinforcements."

"Hey, you could call for reinforcements too. You'd just have to find anyone else on earth who thinks that bird's nest on your face is worth defending."

"You wound me, Scully," Mulder groans. He rubs his chin meditatively. "Maybe I should call in Agent Doggett. He seems like the type to appreciate a bit of manly growth."

Scully snorts. Monica giggles so hard she loses her balance and slides sideways onto the couch, nearly spilling beer all over Scully and the upholstery, and in the resulting scramble for balance she somehow ends up half in Scully's lap, her arm snugly around the smaller woman's waist. Scully presses a kiss to the side of her neck and grins as she snuggles closer with a sigh of bliss.

Mulder turns away to hide his smile, then glances back as Scully calls "Get over here, Mulder." She's managed to work an arm free of Monica's clutches and beckons him closer, one imperious eyebrow raised.

How can he ignore a summons like that? He drops the dish towel he's been using to mop up the countertop and obeys, resting his elbows on the back of the couch, grinning down at his partner and her lover all tangled together in a heap. Monica's practically purring. "What, are you saying there's room in there for me?"

Scully reaches up and scratches his scruffy chin. "I'm not kissing you with that thing on your face, but if you put the movie on and start the popcorn then I think we can squeeze you in."

Mulder catches her hand and presses a kiss to the center of her palm, his eyes dancing. "I'm already in thrall to your wiles, so why not?"  
  
"See, that's what I like to hear," Scully says.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to shae for -- most everything, really. A whole lot of these ideas are hers. None of this could have been written without her.


End file.
